


Won't smile but I'll show you my teeth

by musiclily88



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Based on a song, Cisswap, F/F, Girl Direction, Reform School, Slurs, Threats of Violence, cis!girl Zayn, gendered slurs, it's not underage I promise they're both older than 18, shitty home life, what even is this fic about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 08:03:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18869104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: no sweet dream but a hell of a night





	Won't smile but I'll show you my teeth

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this.
> 
> Loosely based on Halsey’s new video and song “Nightmare.” Go watch it! Also maybe on “Good Girls” by 5SOS lololol
> 
> I wrote this entire goddam thing tonight for no one's purpose and for that I am sorry

Zayn waits patiently for the guards to buzz her out of the gates. Well, she waits as patiently as she’s able, anyway. She licks her tongue over her split bottom lip, hoisting her backpack higher up onto her shoulder.

She gives Guard Jenkins a pretty little smile, dropping it exactly once she’s outside the gate. Then she turns around, putting her fingers up in a V and sticking out her tongue. When Jenkins looks like he’s going to chase her, she laughs and starts running.

There’s no one to pick her up from Rockwell Reform Preparatory—informally called Rockhell, which isn’t particularly creative as far as Zayn’s concerned, so once she stops running, she starts walking.

She stops at the first shitty truckstop she sees, picking up smokes, a cup of coffee, and two crullers. As she’s paying, the clerk says, “Hey, pretty girl, give us a smile.”

“Fuck off. Got nothing to smile about, prick.” She flips him off, rolling her eyes.

“Cunt.”

“Oh. You noticed.” She quirks a brow, grabs her purchases, and leaves the store.

She sucks down the coffee while walking backwards down the two-lane highway, thumb pointing out. She gets a ride a half-hour later, when she’s one cruller and two cigarettes deep, having thrown her coffee cup onto the side of the road.

Zayn leans into the window after the car slows, sussing out the situation before opening the door. The driver is an older blonde woman who looks kind of like Debbie Harry, so Zayn shrugs and opens the door, tossing her bag into the footwell.

“Oh, hon. Where you going?”

“The city, I guess, or as far as you’ll take me.”

She nods, putting the car into gear and pulling away from the side of the road. “You look like you could use a hot meal and a shower.”

 _More like I could use a mom,_ Zayn thinks, but she stays silent for a moment.

“Hey, go ahead and open up the glove compartment. I keep bags of like—essentials, sundries in there, for people who need ‘em. Printed up a list of shelters in the area.”

Zayn blinks, rubbing her tongue over her split bottom lip like a habit that won’t go away. Eventually she leads forward and does as suggested.

Three hours later, she’s camped out at a women and children’s shelter, sitting with her bag on her back and her knees pulled to her chest. She knows how to turn it on when she needs to, and she thinks the puppy-dog frown and the split lip helped her cause a bit, but fuck if she’s going to stay longer than she needs to.

Since old habits die hard—Zayn knows this, as she has a lot of them—she still says the Angel of God prayer before going to sleep.

 

Four days later, she has a job as a barback and a semi-stable, short-term spot in a hostel. The day before her job starts, she wanders around the nearest public library until she gets hungry again, fingers itching for a cigarette.

Her hips have gone waspish, thin, partly from loss of appetite at Rockwell and partly from infuriation at having to inhabit a body. She heads to a nearby bodega, sucking down three cigarettes in quick succession.

She walks around, pulling her hair up tight onto the top of her head, airing off the back of her neck. She’s tempted to redo the undercut she had when she first got to Rockwell, hating the feeling of sweat falling down her back.

The guy behind the counter watches her the whole time she walks around, and she can hardly blame the guy. She buys a bag of chips and a coffee, knowing that her stash of money will run out shortly. She sighs, going back to her hostel to take a nap. After stashing her shit in a locker, she chugs the coffee and forgets to eat entirely.

That night, she finds the dingiest punk club in her area of the city, pretending she shouldn’t have to show an ID. She’s clearly not old enough to be anywhere near the entrance of the club, but a fierce walk and a cold bitch face have both gotten Zayn pretty far in life.

But they’re also the things that have knocked her back.

She nurses a single beer for a while, eyeing the crowd until the second band of the night takes the stage. Then she moves towards the speakers, throwing her hands into the air as the bass pumps into her sunken chest.

She grabs another beer before the set is over, watching the lead singer drop to her knees and wrap the mic cord around her neck from her own spot at the bar. The band’s nothing spectacular, but the lead singer has a dynamism that Zayn can’t pinpoint, even as she humps the stage and cackles.

Zayn wanders back through the crowd, throwing elbows at people trying to shove her around. She catches the singer’s eye as she catapults to her feet, mic still wrapped tight around her neck. Zayn licks at the split in her lower lip, smirking.

The singer throws her body backwards, nearly knocking into the bass player, who ducks out of the way. When they right themselves, Zayn is still staring.

He stays until the band starts breaking down their equipment, pointedly eyeing up the singer before leaving through the side door. She leans against the wall by a dumpster, smoking a few cigarettes and looking at the night sky.

It’s no surprise whatsoever when the singer joins after a while. She puts her hands on her hips, scoffing slightly. Zayn rakes her eyes up and down, taking in the sight of a girl in leather pants and a filthy white crop top.

Again, she licks her lower lip.

“You know, they say those things’ll kill you.”

Zayn shrugs. “That’s the plan.” She moves to offer up the pack to the singer. “I’m Zayn. I liked the gig.”

“Louis.” She takes the pack, extracting a smoke and leaning in to light it from Zayn’s burning on. Taking a drag, she leans back. “Thanks. We’re pretty new to the scene, but it’s been a laugh. I write most of our songs, actually. Gotta keep a record of the wreckage, yeah? Send a message to the next generation.”

“The next generation? How even old are you?”

Louis ashes her cigarette. “Old enough to know better. Old enough to know you’re not old enough to be here.”

Zayn swallows. “And? Are you either?”

Instead of answering, she shrugs.

 

They fuck at Louis’ place, because Zayn is renting a four-person hostel room, and Louis at least has a futon that is semi-private.

She wakes up with Louis snaked around her midsection, arms tight. Zayn snorts, kissing Louis’ forehead before disentangling herself so she can piss and get a cigarette.

When she comes back, Louis is mostly awake, stretching. “Thought maybe did an Irish good-bye.”

“Not that kind of girl.” Zayn knee-walks across the lumpy mattress, cigarette in one hand.

“Oh?”

She shakes her head. “Not remotely Irish.”

Louis snorts, holding out a hand for the cigarette. Zayn hands it over, falling back into Louis’ embrace. “What are you up to today?”

“I start my new job later, barbacking.”

“Sick.” She finishes the cigarette. “So. Breakfast?”

They walk to a diner across the street, and by the time they’re done, Zayn has a new number in her five-year-old flip phone.

 

As Louis punched her number into the phone, she laughed a bit. “This phone is shady as hell. It’s like having a beeper in the 80s.”

“Meaning?”

“Only drug dealers had that shit, and you can’t tell me any different.”

Zayn raised a brow, saying nothing.

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your secrets.”

She laughed, taking the phone back from Louis.

“Text me, yeah? If that thing can even manage it.”

“Roger that.” Zayn saluted.

Louis wrapped an arm around Zayn’s neck, reeling her in. “Have a good first day.”

 

They text periodically for the next few days, until Zayn can show up at the band’s next gig. She’s still not entirely sure what their band’s name is, but Louis extends an invite regardless. This show is a riot even compared to the first one, all spilled drinks and a screaming crowd. Louis is in her element, climbing onto a speaker before lifting her skirt to flash everyone a glimpse of her red panties. She shoots Zayn an air-kiss through the crowd, jumping down into a barrel-roll.

Louis makes sure Zayn’s drinks are comped. When the band’s done playing, Louis leaps from the short stage and makes a beeline straight for Zayn at the bar. She swoops her into a hug, planting a messy, red-lipped kiss on her cheek.

They break down the equipment together, and Zayn gets to meet Louis’ bandmates. They’re a motley bunch, and Zayn notes that the drummer Harry is wearing two headscarves around her long curly hair. The guitarist Niall is a beautiful blonde mess of a thing, dressed like a mix of a slutty hippie and a hoodrat. The bassist Liam is all soulful looks and slow consideration, wearing just a sports bra and baggy jeans over chunky Tims.

Zayn’s not sure if she feels overdressed or underdressed in one of the few outfits that still fit her after Rockwell—a gray tank over a pair of black skinnies, braless, with a studded leather jacket.

Louis perhaps outshines them all, in a short black skirt and a shirt that just says _nightmare_ across the tits. She’s sweaty from the show and from breaking down their equipment, and Zayn thinks she smells amazing.

They load everything into Liam’s van, and she leaves with Niall. Harry heads off to meet up with her girlfriend, a dancer at a nearby club whose shift doesn’t end til three.

Zayn lights a cigarette as she and Louis walk back to her apartment. “So, are like. All your friends really gay?”

Louis laughs, moving to take the cigarette from Zayn’s hand. “Queer, yeah. Was that not apparent from the, uh, everything about me?”

“I dunno.” She shrugs. “It’s nice.” She runs a hand over the back of her neck, which she buzzed two days prior. It feels nice. The sensation is grounding. “My parents sent me to reform school when I came out. So.”

“Fuck.” Louis drops the smoke, stomping it out beneath her foot before grabbing Zayn’s hand and bringing it to her chest. “I’m sorry, I had—no idea.”

“Nah, I mean, they were fine when they thought I was only into really nice Pakistani boys, but you bring home a girl once and suddenly everything’s a trashcan-fire.” Zayn sighs, clutching at Louis’ hand.

“That’s what found families are for, right?” Louis kisses Zayn’s knuckles. “Niall moved in with Liam after escaping an abusive relationship. She was on the streets for awhile, before that. I met Harry at a support group for people who’d been coerced into gay-conversion programs. We find our people.”

Zayn furrows her brows. “You don’t—sound angry.”

“Of course, I’m angry. Who else is gonna be if not me?” She snorts. “Writing my wreckage, right?”

 

They turn a corner, swinging their joined hands between their bodies. Zayn sighs, looking up into the night sky.

“Fucking dykes,” she hears from the left, and she looks up to see two guys snickering at them.

She gives Louis a look, who shakes her head. Zayn licks her split bottom lip and grins, dropping Louis’ hand. She bum-rushes them without a further thought, knocking one against the wall with her elbow before shoving against the other’s shoulders.

Zayn quickly realizes they’re drunk as they trip over their own feet, tumbling against one another. She starts laughing before she hears sirens at their backs, and she turns to look at Louis.

“Run.”

Zayn gives each guy a kick to the knees before turning around to book it away with Louis, who’s not laughing quite as much as Zayn is. They grasp hands again and make it back to Louis’ apartment without getting arrested, but it’s probably a near thing.

They make it up the stairs before Louis rounds on her. “Yo, what the fuck?”

“I’m angry! Somebody should be!”

“That’s—you’re like five-four and one-hundred pounds soaking wet. They could have creamed you.”

Zayn shrugs, licking her bottom lip. “Calculated risk.”

“Just buy mace like the rest of us,” Louis responds, rolling her eyes. “You need an outlet for all this goddam rage.”

 

Two weeks later, Zayn performs her first gig with their band. Harry counts out the percussive rhythm of their first song while Liam and Niall nod at one another, and Zayn watches Louis about to jump off the stage. She still doesn’t know if they have a name or not, but her lip’s healed and she’s grinning so hard she might just explode with it.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: musiclily


End file.
